


One Step At A Time

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Series: Random Drabbles/Requests [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10x22 AU, FIx It, Gen, Guilty Dean, Guilty Sam, POV Alternating, Post Mark of Cain, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 09:15:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4014175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For TheImpossibleFangirl. 10x 22 AU. The bunker is a grave, Sam's going crazy and Dean won't stop talking to his dead angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Step At A Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheImpossibleFangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheImpossibleFangirl/gifts).



> Guys, guys, guys THE DARKNESS THE DARKNESS I'm still not over that! 
> 
> The ImpossibleFangirl asked for a 10x22 AU where Dean did kill Cas. I think it was supposed to be a relatively short fic but it kind of exploded and started getting really long, so I kind of cut it short. Not that happy with the ending, but I think it's appropriate for the mood. Most of this was written before the season finale aired, so obviously there is canon divergence. No The Darkness, sorry know that must disappoint you guys.

Prologue

               When Sam got back to the bunker library, he fell to his knees. It looked like a tornado had blown through. Books were scattered everywhere, wet with gasoline; tables were overturned and stained with gunpowder. There was so much blood, like a thin coat of wax that covered the entire floor and it stank. Sam saw the bodies of the three Styne men and gagged when he saw the body in front of the largest pile of books. It was a kid—Kevin’s age, Sam thought, swallowing—and he had a bullet hole right between his eyes. Sam rubbed his face with his hand and pushed at his eyes to stop the tears.

                Dean had killed these men, he killed a kid, just a frigging kid. And…

                Something in the corner caught Sam’s eye.

                “No,” Sam whispered, his voice cracking. The burning in his eyes worsened as his crawled on his hands and knees to the figure curled in the far corner, battered and bathed in blood—so much blood. “No, no, no,” he said, like a mantra. His face felt hot all of a sudden and tears raced freely down from his eyes and dripped onto the floor. “Cas? Castiel?”

                Castiel was curled into himself and underneath him Sam could see the black outlines of broken wings seared in the floor. He could only see one side of Castiel’s face, but it was all a molten purple and his lips were so swollen and red, with blood staining them and his chin.

                Cautiously, Sam touched Castiel’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

                There was an angel blade sticking out where his heart would be.

                Sam did vomit this time. He couldn’t hold it back. He turned to his left to avoid Castiel and vomited until his stomach was empty and twisted with each remaining dry heave. Sam wiped at his mouth with his jacket sleeve. His face was flushed and snotty when he turned back to Castiel. His eyes were open, but vacant, lifeless. And, and—he was so beaten up. Broken arm, broken nose, broken ribs too, it looked like. And so much blood.

                And Dean had done this.

                Dean killed Castiel.

                “Oh, Cas,” Sam cried and he threw himself over Castiel’s body and he sobbed. Castiel was dead and it was his fault. He told Castiel to go after Dean himself. He got Charlie killed and now he got Castiel killed too, his last real friend in the entire world, his brother.

                He recalled what that hallucination told him. How he was the crazy one, how he would pay with other people’s lives to save Dean. He hadn’t believed her then. She hadn’t been real, but she had been right. Charlie was dead because of him and now Cas was too.

                Sam didn’t know how long he lay there, crying. Hours, days, eternity. Eventually, he moved his limp muscles and pushed himself upwards. He pulled the blade out of Castiel’s heart with such ease he almost became sick again and he threw it across the floor so hard it hit the other wall.

                He closed Castiel’s eyes and sobbed. “I’m gonna save him, Cas,” he said between breaths. “I promise you.”

                He couldn’t let Castiel or Charlie’s sacrifice go in vain. He had to save Dean---and not just for Dean’s sake anymore, not for Sam’s sanity, but for Cas and Charlie who both gave up everything to help him.

                Shakily, he stood and wiped at his face. He ascended the large spiral staircase to go outside and prepare Castiel’s pyre.

 

                Some part of Sam thought that he should wait to do Castiel’s funeral until Dean was better. Castiel had been Dean’s friend, too. Dean should be here.

                But the more logical part of Sam knew he couldn’t wait. Dean had killed Castiel and walked away. Dean wasn’t in his right mind. And biology had already begun to set. Rigor mortis, basic decomposition.

                So he built the pyre all by himself and he wrapped Castiel in a clean bedsheet and carried him up the stairs all by himself and set him on the pyre all by himself. And as it burned, Sam said a prayer. He didn’t know where angels went they died, but he prayed God—wherever He was---would let Castiel into Heaven.

                Another part of Sam was hesitant about burning the body at all. Castiel had died before—and before—and before and he always came back. It wasn’t unreasonable, Sam thought, to think that maybe Cas would come back again.

                But he’d never left the wing marks before. And Sam couldn’t drown out the finality they seemed to represent.

                After several hours, the pyre and body burned out and Sam stood there for a long time before he forced himself back into the bunker and tried to decide what to do with the Stynes.

 

I

 

                He hadn’t killed Crowley, but he knew sparingly what Dean had been up to when he was in Hell and he had seen that darker side of his brother brought to the surface level in the years since his resurrection; more so now that he had the Mark of Cain. There was Gadreel and Metatron and more recently that Styne family member they had chained up.

                Sam was a student and while that part of Dean scared him he did observe.

                It only took five hours of hashing and dicing off fingers before Rowena broke and gave him the cure.

                When Dean asked, Sam wouldn’t go into details about what the cure really was or what it had cost to make it. He had it now, that was the important thing. And he would use it to save Dean.

                Sam tracked Dean down to Albuquerque, a local bar. Drinking and hustling made the Mark worse. Sam wondered why Dean continued to indulge it.

                Sam wondered why Dean had killed Cas.

                Sam swallowed. It had been weeks and he still couldn’t think of Castiel without nearly crying. He didn’t like it, feeling this much grief. His last words to his dad had been go to hell and Sam hadn’t cried about John as he did Cas.

                Sam walked up to the bar and sat down beside Dean. He called attention to the bartender and asked for a single shot of whiskey and downed in in one gulp.

                “Hey ya, Sammy,” Dean said, winking as he raised his own beer bottle. “What’cha been up to?”

                God, did Dean even know what he did?  
               

Sam fiddled with the vile in his pocket. “I’ve got the cure, Dean.”

                “What?”

                Sam pulled the vile from his pocket and held it close to his chest. It was a bright red liquid, like blood. “You just have to drink this and you’ll be cured.”

                Sam kept his voice low and the vile hidden. He was afraid if he spoke louder, or showed off the cure, he would get his hopes up too high. He knew from experience that getting his hopes up high only preordained them to be crushed.

                “What if,” Dean said, punctuating his words, “I don’t want to be cured?”

                There it was. Sam chewed his lip. “You don’t mean that Dean. We’ve been looking for the cure for over a year and now we have it. And all you have to do is drink it!”

                “You’ve been looking for a cure. I told you repeatedly that I was fine with the mark. You were the one that kept pushing and digging and you got Charlie killed!” Dean slammed his fist down on the bar top, earning a nasty look from the bartender followed by an angry, “Knock it off!”

                Sam had to bit his tongue to keep from saying anything about Castiel. Dean, he realized with horror, didn’t remember killing Castiel.

                And when he drank the cure…

                But Sam had to cure Dean. Cas and Charlie both died in their efforts to save Dean and Sam had promised Cas he would. Dean may have…plunged the blade into Cas’s heart, but it was Sam’s fault he was dead. He told Cas to go after Dean alone after he knew what Dean was capable of.

                He should’ve never let Cas go alone.

                “Charlie got us the cure, Dean,” Sam said, lowering his voice further. “She translated the Book of the Damned and emailed it to me before…Don’t let her death be in vain. Please, I need you Dean. I need my brother.”               

                Sam knew what cards to play, which buttons to press. And he saw the waver in Dean’s eyes, saw Dean fighting against the inner demon just beneath his skin that had been trying to claw its way out ever since the sanctification ritual.

                “So,” Dean cleared his throat. “I just have to drink that, like a roofie?”

                “That’s not funny, Dean.”

                Dean shrugged. “Eh, it kinda was. All right, hand it over.”

                Sam did. He trusted Dean to drink the cure and not throw it away or break it. Dean examined the vile for a second, looked at the color and consistency. He glanced at Sam. “Bottoms up,” he said and unscrewed the lid. He swallowed it in two gulps and put the vile down on the counter.

                His face scrunched up like he was in pain and he made gagging noises.

                “Dean?” Sam touched his shoulder gently, but Dean pulled away and stormed to the bathroom.

                The bartender looked at Sam oddly. “Food poisoning?” he asked.

                Sam ignored him and ran after Dean. He saw Dean’s feet in the furthest stall and heard projectile vomiting. The sound made Sam’s own stomach quiver, but he hadn’t been eating enough to throw up. Sam stood supportively by the stall for a full five minutes before the vomiting stopped and there was heavy breathing. Every now and then another patron would come into the bathroom and use the urinal, giving Sam odd looks, but Sam did his best to brush it off. They probably thought Dean just couldn’t hold his liquor.

                When they were alone, Sam knocked quietly. “Dean? You all right?” A new sound had been added to the heavy breathing, an underlying heaviness…sniffling? Was Dean crying?

                The toilet flushed and Dean pushed himself out, his eyes casted down.

                “Did it work? Is the Mark…?

                Dean rolled ups his sleeve. There was no Mark of Cain on his arm or anything to suggest there had ever been. Sam’s eyes prickled with tears of joy and he couldn’t help himself. He hugged Dean, pulled his brother tight against his chest, so close he could hear Dean’s heartbeat.

                Dean was shaking in his arms. Sam felt a wetness on his shoulder. He broke the hug after a few moments, but Dean still wouldn’t look him in the eye.

                “Dean? How are you feeling?”

                Dean looked up then. His eyes were red and puffy, tears rolling freely down his cheeks and onto his neck; a little droplet of snot dangled from his nostril and he was crying so hard he could barely breathe.

                “I killed Cas,” he said, nearly breathless and Sam felt like he’d been hit by a train. This was what he had expected, why was he so surprised? Sam had cried finding Castiel’s body and he hadn’t been as close to him as Dean was. Of course Dean would be upset.

                But the honesty, the guilt, the anguish in Dean’s face and words tore Sam limb from limb. Sam had seen Dean cry before, it wasn’t a shock, but the tears had never been this bad. Dean was crying like a little child, confused and scared and lost. Dean fell to the ground and pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face and wrapping his arms over his head.

                “I killed Cas,” he kept saying. Sam realized Dean was saying it to himself more than to him and each time Dean said it, Sam felt like someone was drilling nails in his heart.

                “I killed Cas, I killed Cas, I _killed_ Cas, oh Cas I’m sorry I’m so so sorry.”

 

                II

                Dean stayed on the bathroom floor like that until the bar closed and the manager kicked them out.

                “Next time maybe you should watch your friend,” the manager had said to Sam, “make sure he don’t drink so much.”

                Dean didn’t have the energy to make a snide remark back. He barely had the energy to stand. Sam was nearly dragging Dean from the bar into the Impala. Sam opted to just ditch his car--a piece of shit if Dean ever saw one. He wordlessly got in the passenger seat and put on his seat belt. His mouth tasted like salt and his face was sticky with tear tracks, but he didn’t have any more tears left to cry even though his breath was still hitched and his stomach sour.

                Every time he closed his eyes he saw himself back at the bunker, killing the Styne kid. He saw Cas standing there, trying to talk him down, reason with him and he heard the distinct sound of breaking bone as Dean twisted Cas’s arm and flung him across the room.

                He was towering over Cas, landing blow after blow, all while Cas tried to scoot away, only ever raising his hands to block Dean’s blows. He never once tried to defend himself, never once punched Dean back and when he had Cas pinned to the floor and the angel blade in his hand, he still saw the wild, animalistic fear in Cas’s eyes.

                “Dean, please,” he said, through swollen lips and busted cheeks.

                At that moment there were two Deans in his mind speaking. Normal Dean was screaming, freaking out what have I done what have I done oh my god Cas are you okay. Normal Dean wanted to throw the angel blade as far away as possible and take Cas into his arms and apologize over and over, promise that nothing bad would ever happen to him again.

                Then there was Mark of Cain Dean that was less emphatic. Mark of Cain Dean said why does it matter if I beat him up, he’s beaten me up plenty of times before he worked with Crowley he let the Leviathans loose and ran away with the Angel Tablet what has he done to deserve any mercy?

                And both Deans fought with each other. But Mark of Cain Dean fed off anger and violence and his fight with Cas was brutal. Cas was bruised and bloody, had several broken bones and just the smell of the blood made Mark of Cain Dean crave more. Mark of Cain Dean was stronger, demonic and Normal Dean just couldn’t fight him, couldn’t do anything when Mark of Cain Dean plunged the angel blade into Cas’s heart.

                And Mark of Cain Dean swallowed up Normal Dean and walked away without a care.

                Dean held his wrist to his chest, the wrist Castiel had grabbed in one last effort of strength.

                _Dean please_

And his mouth is too full of blood to properly speak.

                “Did you,” he didn’t trust his voice not the crack. He cleared his throat. “Did you give him a hunter’s funeral?”

                “Yeah,” Sam said, his mouth a thin line.

                Sam had found Castiel’s body. Sam had found Castiel beaten and stabbed and dead, found Cas and known it was Dean that did that, and he still came after Dean.

                “Good.”

                His eyes were burning again. He rubbed at them and if he let out a pained, animalistic whimper Sam didn’t comment on it. Dean wanted to curl in on himself and disappear, vanish, die. He deserved to die, he killed his best friend in cold blood.

                He was a monster. After everything Castiel had done for him…

                “Pull over,” he barked to Sam.

                “What?”

                “Pull over,” he said again and Sam complied, turning on the caution lights before parking on the shoulder. Dean scrambled out of the car and ran until he was several yards away from the car and Sam and he feel to his knees and screamed. He pounded his fists onto the hard ground until they bled and he pulled at his hair and screamed himself hoarse. Hot tears raced down his face again.

                “Cas,” he said, his voice barely a whisper and sore. “I didn’t mean…”

                He flinched when he felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder, but he was too ashamed to look up. How could Sam stand to be near him when he knew what Dean did? To their friend?

                “It’s not your fault,” Sam said.

                “The fuck Sam, of course it’s my fault, I stabbed him!”

                “No, Dean, you didn’t. Not really you. Look, did you blame Cas when you got the shit beat out of you in Lucifer’s crypt?”

                “No,” Dean moaned. “That wasn’t…”

                “Right. That wasn’t really Cas. And you weren’t…really you. It was the Mark, Dean, not you.”

                How could he explain to Sammy? The Mark had been sentient to a degree, yeah, but it didn’t change Dean’s desires. It just…sort of walled off his conscience. He didn’t think about consequences or other people’s feelings when the Mark took over. All that mattered at that moment was what he wanted. He had to get it.

                “Dean, it’s my fault Cas is dead. I…sent him after you, by himself.”

                Dean clenched his fingers around the grass. Hearing the confession from Sam did nothing to lessen his guilt; it increased it. He killed Cas, his best friend, Sam’s best friend, and Sam thought it was his fault. It tore at his heart…and pissed him off.

                “No,” he hissed. “No, it’s my fault. I should’ve been stronger. I should’ve fought the Mark better. I stabbed him, Sam, in the heart, with his own blade! Charlie was on you. This is on me.”

                Sam said nothing and if Dean had anything in his stomach, he would’ve vomited again. The skin on his arm where the Mark used to be itched.

                He didn’t know when or how, by Sam eventually coerced him into getting back the car. The back seat this time. Dean laid down as much as he could, pulled his knees to his chest and buried himself underneath the blanket Sam had thrown back at him.

                For a while there was only the sound of the Impala’s sports car engine, but Dean couldn’t help himself.

                “Cas,” he whispered to himself, low enough that Sam wouldn’t hear. “I don’t know if you can even hear me—“ Where did angels go when they died? Cas had died a bunch before, but every time Dean asked him, he shrugged and just said something along the lines of “I wasn’t aware I had been dead until I wasn’t anymore.” Did angels not go anywhere? Did they just…cease to be?

                Or maybe Cas just didn’t remember because he was resurrected. Maybe it was like a rule, Don’t Talk About Fight Club. Cas was dead, then he wasn’t, so they stripped him off his memories of Angel Afterlife.

                “I love you,” he said, ignoring the way his heart dropped into his stomach. “You probably didn’t know that. I’ve always been kind of a dick to you. And I’m not talking about the teasing. You’ve…you’ve always been there for me. I know you couldn’t always be there when I needed you, but you were there when it really mattered. And I was never there for you. I wasn’t there for you when you were leading a war you didn’t want to fight. And then you were sick after taking Sam’s crazy and I wasn’t patient or understanding.

                “You told me…” Dean swallowed and wiped at the tears. “You told me after Purgatory that you wanted to kill yourself. I know Sam interrupted us, but I never talked to you about it again. I just figured you would’ve…sorted it out by yourself. And you did, I think, which is…good, Cas, but the point is you shouldn’t have had to sort it by yourself. I should’ve helped you. And I really fucked up with Naomi, didn’t I? Sam and I, we both knew something was up with you. We knew you weren’t really acting right and we knew you your story about that Alfie kid didn’t add up and we just let it go. You were being fucking tortured right in front of us and we didn’t do jack.

                “But, Cas, my biggest fuckup was kicking you out of the bunker. Sam’s life was endangered, but yours was too and I chose him over you. I can’t…apologize for that, Sam’s my brother. But I shouldn’t have lied to you. I should have helped you out when you were human. Given you some cash, a card. I could’ve hooked up with any of our hunting buddies, but I didn’t.

                “But I meant it when I said I was proud of you. You did good as a human, Cas. Hell, you made a better human than I ever had. You got that job all by yourself and your boss lady, Nora right?, she told me how hard you worked. Said you were probably the best employee she ever had. And maybe if I wasn’t such a jackass I would’ve realized back then that you were sleeping in the stockroom but the truth is Cas I was jealous and hurt. I was jealous that you were doing so well without me. Not that I wanted you to be doing bad, but…I don’t know.

                “And…I should’ve killed Metatron for what he did to you. I know I got pissed at you for trusting Metatron, but truth is me and Sam trusted him first. We trusted him and you trusted us and…” And Cas got angel raped because of it.

                Dean got the Mark so that he could kill Abbadon. But really, Metatron stealing Cas’s grace had been the pinnacle of the shit pile. If Cas had his juice, maybe they would’ve found another way to gank Abbadon. Maybe Dean would never have gotten the Mark.

                Would never have killed Cas.

                That, though, he couldn’t blame on Metatron. That was all his fault.

                “And since I didn’t kill Metatron, I’m gonna kill myself.”

 

III

                When they pulled up to the bunker, Sam put the car in park, but left the engine running. “Wait here,” Sam ordered.

                Dean lifted his head slightly. “Why?”

                “I’m gonna get some essentials and then we’re gonna get outta here.”

                “We’re not staying in the bunker?”

                Sam froze. Did Dean not realize what the bunker was now? Cas had died in there. Dean had killed Cas inside those walls. It wasn’t home anymore; it was a grave. Kevin’s death had been traumatic, devastating and it had taken months for any sense of normalcy to return to the library room where Kevin had lain dead with his eyes burned out. Sam suspected the only reason the normalcy did return was because they were able to reunite Kevin’s ghost with his mother.

                Kevin was just a kid, family for sure, but they had known Cas for years. Dean had spent a year in isolation with Cas when they were stuck in Purgatory and Cas had forsaken his heavenly family to be a part of the Winchester clan. Kevin was different than Castiel. Kevin had been killed by Gadreel, and even though it had been Sam’s hands that laid on top of Kevin’s head, it wasn’t Sam.

                And it was the Mark that killed Cas, but…

                And Sam knew that Cas and Dean had funny business between them. They loved each other in a way Dean couldn’t love anyone else.

                “I don’t think it’s a good idea to stay here,” Sam said, licking his lips.

                “I don’t want to leave.”

                “Dean.”

                “No, Sam. I’m not leaving.”

                “Don’t make me drag you kicking and screaming.”

                “Like you could take me,” Dean snapped and he got out of the car. Sam panicked and fumbled with the seat belt before he tripped out of the car to chase after Dean.

                “Dean, you can’t go in there.”

                “I’m going in, Sam and nobody’s gonna stop me!” And he pushed open the large metal door and raced down the spiral staircase. Sam dug his nails into his scalp and swore.

 

IV

                Sam hadn’t cleaned up the bunker, except for the bodies. The books were still scattered and blood was everywhere, but what captured Dean’s attention most was the black stain in the far corner of the library. He fell to his knees in front of it and traced it gently with his fingertips.

                Dean didn’t know anything about bird anatomy or wings, but he could tell that the wings that had scorched a tattoo into concrete floor had been broken.

                “What didn’t you tell me, Cas?” He whispered, his throat growing tight. Dean knew broken bones. They _hurt._ Scream in agony, keep you awake kind of hurt. How had Castiel stood it?

                How did Castiel let Dean kill him?

                Dean cried, tears falling onto the wing marks and he hunched in on himself, desperately wished he could just disappear. He was a monster. He killed his best friend, his…

                “I love you,” he said again, laying down on top of the wing marks, curled into the fetal position. “I should’ve told you that a long time ago.” He turns his face into the blackened marks and sniffs. It smells like heather and, to Dean’s surprise, detergent. It’s clean and Dean wondered how wings that broken could smell so clean.

                He continued to trace the outline of feathered imprints. “You did it, Cas,” he said. “You helped cure me.”

                He sighed and stopped talking. What could he say? He remained mute for a long while, well aware of Sam standing in just the opposite room, staring at him with pity and disgust. Cas had been Sam’s friend too and Dean killed Sam’s last friend. Cas was just one more in a slew of others to fall to the Winchester Curse.

                So Dean just kept saying the only truth he knew. I love you, I love you.

                After what Dean thought was a few hours, Sam sat down in front of him. “Dean,” he said, shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry, but I gotta ask. Did you and Cas ever—“

                “No,” Dean cut him off.

                Sam glanced at him quizzically. “Never ever? Not even once?”

                Dean shrugged. “We…fooled around a bit in Purgatory, but it never got serious. He didn’t know.” Cas had probably seen the cuddling as a necessity to Dean’s survival, for warmth. Bastard probably never even thought that Dean just liked having him close. The touching had been mostly innocent, but Cas wouldn’t have known that Dean’s game of grab ass was inappropriate anyway and Dean’s flirtations of double entendres had always gone over Cas’s head. It had been a summer fling, really.

                “He had to have known,” Sam frowned.

                Dean shook his head. “I killed him, Sam.” A snort forces its way out past Dean’s lips. “The last thing he ever saw was me killing him with his own blade.”

                Speaking of which…

                Dean saw it. It was just on the other side of the room, glinting slightly with the sun that came in through the small windows. It taunted him, mocked him.

                “Go away, Sam,” he said.

                “Dean, I’m not—“

                “Just leave me alone!” He yelled and tried to ignore how much like Dad he sounded in that instant. Sam blinked, then slowly stood up and began to walk away.

                “It wasn’t your fault, Dean.” Sam said before his footsteps were too far away to hear.

                Dean laid there for several more moments before he forced himself to crawl across the floor to where the angel blade was. He should do it. It would be so easy to do it. He deserved to die. He imagined it easily, just one quick slice down both arms, wrist to elbow and he’d be dead within the half hour.

                Dean placed the tip of the blade to his skin and he began to press, blood began to seep and it ran wet down Castiel’s dried blood. Dean bit his lip and was prepared to drag, when…

                He couldn’t do it. The blade clacked to the floor and Dean held his wrist to his chest. He deserved to die, he needed to die, but he couldn’t do it. Who would look after Sam if he killed himself? Sam needed someone to look after him. Sam couldn’t take care of himself. The first time Dean died, when he went to Hell, Sam was shacking up Ruby and drinking demon blood like jell-o shots. And then last year when he became a demon, Sam nearly went insane, became the sort of monster Dean was in Hell.

                He couldn’t kill himself, he couldn’t leave Sam alone.

                But how could he ever make it up to Cas? He had to pay for what he did to Cas.

                Dean groaned and hooked the angel blade in the belt loop on his jeans. He pushed himself to his knees and forced his way up the staircase, back outside. Cas’s car was still there, parked by the side of the bunker so it was hidden from the road view. Dean put a hand on the hood and lifted it up.

                “Y’know, Cas,” he said, “you actually didn’t do so bad.” He always gave Cas a hard time about his car. It was ugly, and it sputtered like a dying asthmatic. But it was the James Bond car. That automatically gave it cool points. Dean prodded at the engine. “Could use a bit of a tune up. New spark plug.” He vaguely remembered Cas mentioning once that sometimes, if it was cold, it would take several attempts to get the car running. Why hadn’t he checked it out earlier?

                “New tires, definitely,” Dean said, kicking the front right tire. The treads were nearly worn down with age and use. “A quick wash and wax and this thing won’t look half bad.”

                Dean got to work.

 

V

                Dean’s revelation that he and Cas never hooked up had surprised Sam. He wasn’t oblivious. And neither were the angels or the demons. It seemed that anyone who knew about the two of them always made snarky comments about their relationship. And since Sam was usually stuck with the two of them in isolated locations, he got a free front row seat to all the glorious eye sex and UST.

                Purgatory, Sam figured, would’ve been the perfect place for them to work it out. Dean said that Purgatory hadn’t even been that bad. Freeing, he had called it. Pure. Survival for survival’s sake. For the first time ever, Dean and Cas would’ve been alone, away from Sam and angels and demons. Away from judgement.

                And even though he’s probably putting too much thinking into his brother’s sex life, Sam wished they would’ve done it. Cas made Dean happy in a way Sam could never achieve. And Dean made Cas a better person; made him enjoy things and life and fun. They were good for each other.

                Sam remembered when Cas was killed by the Leviathan. Dean had lost it. Dean had denied it then, but Sam knew. He drank more than Sam had ever seen him drink previously. He barely slept, became short with anyone who tried to talk to him and was beyond obsessed with hunting.

                And that was when something else had killed Cas.

                Sam had no idea what was going to happen this time around. Dean had drawn into himself in a way he never had before. Seeing him lying there, on top of Castiel’s wing marks, _talking to Cas._

                Sam rubbed at his face with his hands, unsurprised when they came back wet. He’d done a lot of crying these last few weeks. He didn’t think it was going to stop anytime soon. If ever.

                They were never going to get past this. Their dad’s death had been hard, brutal, but not heartbreaking. He’d never been much of a father. Bobby’s death had been harder, but releasing his soul to Heaven himself had given Sam a form of closure he’d never known before. It didn’t hurt to think about Bobby. Charlie’s death still burned, still immediate, but was cooled with the knowledge that she had not died in vain. She had cracked the code, helped cure Dean.

                And the most important thing: all of them had died as hunters, in the game, by the monsters they were fighting. Cas was beaten and murdered by his best friend, the person he gave up everything to be with. The same person he had laid down his own life before to protect.

                There was no way to get past this.

                But they had to try. Sam was going to do better this time. When Castiel had been drowned by the Leviathan, Sam had complied with Dean’s wishes of not talking about Castiel. But that had been wrong. Wrong because it allowed Dean’s grief and rage to fester within itself and multiply and wrong because Castiel deserved to be talked about. Sam knew Cas would want Dean to have a life. Sam wouldn’t let Castiel die in vain.

                One step at a time.

                Sam exited his room slowly, glancing around the bunker. If they were going to stay here, they needed to clean it. Sam picked up a stray book from the floor. It, like many of the others, had gasoline drizzled on it. But they couldn’t just throw the books away. They were all unique and rare. Most of them were one of a kind. Sam thought maybe dry baking soda would work. It got gas stains out clothing.

                He begins the laborious task, grateful for the distraction. The stains were weeks old by now and most have set deep into the paper, but Sam was able to make most of the writing legible, even if he couldn’t quite get the smell out. He Febreezed every corner of the bunker twice as he set to organizing the library once more. Some books were destroyed, but Sam couldn’t find it in his heart to chuck them.

                He got so lost in his world of cleaning and organization, he didn’t even think about Dean again until he heard the echoes of drilling from the garage. Sam dropped everything and ran to the garage.

                “Dean?” He tried to smoother the panic in his voice, but it still had an edge to it that wouldn’t hide. “Are you okay?” He turned the knob and let out a sigh a relief when the door opened.

                Dean was bending down by Castiel’s car, taking out the tires. He looked up when Sam came in, drenched in sweat, hands raw from hours of work. “Hey Sam,” he said before returning to work.

                “Dean?” Sam said cautiously as he walked up to Dean. “What are you doing?”

                “Fixing up Cas’s car. What does it look like?”

                “I see that. But why?”

                “’Cause it needs the work. Can’t believe you didn’t take care of this thing, Cas. They don’t make these anymore. Help out, why don’t ya Sammy? Give it the old spit and shine.”

                Sam swallowed. “Okay,” he said. “Whatever you want Dean.”

                He walked to the sink in the garage and soaked the large sponge till it was heavy and dense. He brought it back to Castiel’s car and began washing in slow, conscientious circles.

                “Hey Cas, did Metatron teach you wax on, wax off? Man, you probably would’ve hated that movie.”

                Sam tried to drown himself in his work once more, focusing only on the task at hand. But Dean kept pulling him out, forcing him to re-live every last awful moment that came with these last few weeks.

                “You know what movie I think you would’ve liked? Princess Bride. That movie is _kick ass._ Inconceivable! ‘My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’ You’d make a good Inigo, I think. Just without the accent.”

                “Dean,” Sam said.

                “What?”

                The drill droned on until Dean popped the tire off. He rubbed at his face with the sleeve of his shirt and looked at Sam expectantly.

                And what was Sam supposed to say? What could he possibly say that would make any of this sane or right or better? Dean wasn’t crying, at least. And he just wasn’t laying there on those wing stains, lost in his own world. He was doing something he enjoyed doing. Working on cars.

                “Tell him about The Exorcist,” Sam said weakly.

                Dean rolled his eyes. “Totally over rated, Cas. They get so many things wrong, it’s like the directors never actually dealt with a real demon possession before. ‘I see dead people’, what kind of tagline is that? I am dead people.”

                Wax on, wax off, Sam forced a mantra in his mind. Drown out Dean, wax off, wax on.

 

 

 

                Later, Sam forced himself back into the bunker while Dean still tinkered with the car. Something about an oil change or whatever. Same tried not to listen to Dean talk to his dead angel.

                But the sight that greeted Sam when he walked back into the bunker was of course the wing marks. Sam’s eyes burned again just at the sight of them and he knew he couldn’t leave them there if they were going to stay. They shouldn’t stay, Sam knew logically. Staying was unhealthy. It would drive him crazy. It had been home a time ago, but there was no way it could ever regain that status. Home was family and his family was dead. He saved Dean, but he paid with the lives of two of his best friends.

                Sam got bleach from the nearest bathroom and he poured it straight on top of the blackened marks. That odor made Sam cough and nearly gag. He pulled his shirt collar up over his mouth and nose as he splashed the bleach over every inch of the marks.

                Like the Stynes with the books, he realized in horror.

                But kept pouring. And when he was satisfied he dropped to his knees and he began scrubbing, telling himself that the tears were just from the smell of bleach.

 

VI

                Dean walked into the library, covered in sweat, grease, and oil to see Sam scrubbing away at the wing marks.

                “What are you doing?” He screamed and rushed towards Sam, pushing him away. Dean dropped protectively over the stains, covering them with his body, not caring about the bleach that burned at his skin on contact, or the pungent odor that made bile rise in his throat.

                “Dean,” Sam said gently, but Dean buried his face in the crook of his arm and curled his fingers into the cement ground. “We can’t leave it there.”

                “Shut up Sam. It’s not hurting anything.”

                “I know it must feel awful, but it wasn’t your fault Dean and you know Cas wouldn’t blame you and we have to clean it up Dean. It can’t stay here.”

                “Yes we can! Fuck it Sam, I killed him and I didn’t even get to be at his funeral!”

                “Then let’s have another one, Dean. Let cleaning these up be another funeral.”

                “No,” it came out raspy and broken. How could Sam not understand? These wings were Castiel. When Cas got ripped to shreds by the Leviathan, Dean had carried the bastard’s coat with him everywhere, slept with it tucked underneath his pillow; it was all he had left of his friend. Dean didn’t have a coat anymore. Cas had lost that coat years ago. These wing marks were all he had left. The angel blade couldn’t count. Dean wouldn’t let it count. The car was important too, but not the same. These wing marks had a sentience all their own. These belonged to the wings that made thunder roar and lightening flash. These belonged to the wings that demanded respect and intimidation, that had carried Dean across the states and through time, back from the bowels of Hell, that had shielded him in Purgatory.

                And look what they had been reduced to. Nothing more than shit stains on a cement floor underground.

                And Dean couldn’t explain it, but they still held a power over him. One he still couldn’t comprehend as he observed the broken bones and missing feathers. He couldn’t let Sam erase them, erase Cas.

                “I want them here,” Dean moaned. He wanted the marks, partly out of a selfish desire to hang onto Cas however he could, and partly out of his masochistic desire to punish himself. He couldn’t wash this away, out of sight out of mind. He needed to be punished. Cas had purposefully kept himself in Purgatory to punish himself, purposefully kept himself away from Dean and Sam to do some twisted form of his idea of a penance. Dean would too. Keeping the wing marks would be his penance.

                “Just,” Dean swallowed, “just leave me alone for a while Sam.”

                “I don’t think I should do that, Dean.”

                “I don’t care what you think!” Dean collapsed to the ground and sobbed, but in between breaths he would mumble nonsensical things. “You did it, Cas,” he said, “you completed your mission, you saved the Righteous Man you stupid son a bitch. You should have left me in Hell. You should have let Naomi kill me in the crypt. You should have never disobeyed for me.”

                He laid there the rest of the night.

 

 

                Days drug into weeks following a routine of crying and drinking, intercepted by talking to Castiel. It made Dean feel slightly better, praying to Cas. When he prayed to Cas, he could momentarily forget the horrible truth. Like in Purgatory. He could pretend that Cas could still hear him, that Cas still cared.

                He’d taken to Cas’s car. It was big and slow, but Dean found it comforting to sit in the seat he knew Cas had sat in, drive the same roads Cas had driven. After he finished his work, Dean made an effort to keep it in the same condition he found it. The inside had been meticulous. Not a speck of dirt or trash anywhere, the windows wiped clean down. The only thing that had made Dean raise an eyebrow was the blanket and pillow laid out in the backseat and he figured Cas must have been sleeping in his car when he was human and when he was sick while the stolen grace faded away.

                One afternoon after rummaging through the glove compartment, Dean found a folded up piece of paper with elegant handwriting stained in.

                _Steve_

_Here you go, she’s all yours. I know she’s in good hands with you. :)_

_\--Dylan_

Dylan must’ve been the guy who sold Cas the car. Dean’s stomach churned remembering how hard Cas had it as a human, all alone. But this was proof that Cas had done okay. He made friends. He brought a car all by himself. Pre Mark of Cain Dean would’ve laughed at the sentimentality of Cas keeping the note. But not Post Mark of Cain Dean. Post Mark of Cain Dean thought it was sweet that Cas cared enough to keep the note.

                “Who’s Dylan, Cas? A good friend?” Dean folded the note up back the way he found it and placed it back in the glove compartment. “Why do they even still call it a glove compartment anyway? Nobody wears gloves anymore. Revolver compartment, they should call it.”

                Dean exited the Continental and when he turned around to head back into the bunker, he was stopped by an unexpected sight.

                “Hannah,” he said, his throat closing up.

                He didn’t know how he knew it was Hannah. She—he?---looked nothing like the last time Dean saw her—him? But there was something, a spark, deep in the eyes that Dean just knew.

                “Hello Dean,” Hannah said.

                This was it, the Heavenly justice he’d been waiting for. It had only a matter of time. Dean was surprised at his lack of fear.

                “Well,” Dean said, extending his arms out, “what are you waiting for? Take your hit.”

                Hannah twisted his head. “I am not here to harm you Dean. I only wish to talk.”

                Dean blinked. Hannah took a tentative step forward.

                “I came here to ask of you to stop what you are doing. Your prayers, they are distressing Castiel.”

                There was so much in those few words, Dean felt like he’d been whiplashed. His brain was processing at an AOL speed. “Cas is…in Heaven?”

                Dean knew he should be upset at the fact that apparently Cas was so mad and scared of him that Dean just talking to him was “distressing” but he couldn’t force that emotion over the joy he felt with the knowledge that Cas was in Heaven. That he was.

                Hannah smiled. That was the same too, even with the dude vessel. “Castiel is unique, isn’t he? And no, Dean, Castiel isn’t distressed because he is afraid of you.”

                “Reading minds is cheating.”

                “Castiel is distressed because _you_ are distressed and he cannot come to your aide.”

                There was so much in all that sentence too. Cas was upset for him?

                “I don’t understand.”

                “Neither do I.” And there it was, that snide bitterness that had once tried to compel Cas into proving himself by killing Dean. Just another angel then, holier than thou, humans are mud monkeys. “But Castiel cares for you deeply. Castiel is my brother and I care for him. So I guess I should care for you.”             

                “Can I talk to him?” To apologize, over and over, till his lips bled and his teeth fell out. It wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t take back the beating, wouldn’t pull the blade out of Cas’s chest, but Dean had to apologize, Cas had to know how sorry Dean was.

                “No,” Hannah snapped. “That would be unwise.”

                “But—“

                “Goodbye, Dean,” he said and then he was gone. Dean wasn’t sure if he felt better or worse than he had just moments ago.

 

VII

                When Dean relayed Hannah’s information back to Sam, Sam felt he had no choice but to reach out to Oliver Price once more. He didn’t want to bother the poor man more than he already had, but he didn’t have the heart in him to break Dean’s. And he owed it to Cas to at least try to build a bridge. Dean was giddy the entire drive, like a schoolboy on his first date.

                Which was probably more spot on than Sam meant it to be.

                “Go away!” Oliver had screamed when Sam knocked on his door. Sam sighed and tried again, Dean fidgeting nervously behind him.

“Mister Price? I’m sorry to bother you again, but it’s really important. It’s Sam Winchester? The hippie?” He added belatedly.

             Sam heard the turning of the deadbolt. Oliver Price opened the door.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave me alone?”

            “I’m sorry, I really am,” Sam said, “but it’s urgent that we talk to you.”

                “Where’s the angel guy?”

                Sam’s breath caught in his throat. Oliver glanced around Sam over to Dean.

                “Oh,” he said. “My condolences. I guess. I kinda liked him.”

                “This is my brother Dean,” Sam said, scooting slightly to the side. “And he really needs to talk to Castiel.”

                Oliver pinched his nose and sighed, stepping to the right to let Sam and Dean in. He closed the door behind them. Dean sulked in the back.

                “You think too loud, boy,” Oliver said, pushing his way past towards the séance room.

                “Beg pardon?” Dean said.

                “Oliver can read minds,” Sam supplied.

                “Everyone’s?”

                “Everyone’s except that angel guy,” Oliver called from the room. He set up the necessary supplies on the table and lit the match. “You ponies ready for this rodeo or what?”  
               They slowly walked up the table and sat down, Dean more stiffly than Sam. Oliver sat down afterwards.

                “Do you have anything that belongs to the deceased?”

               Dean frowned and reached back behind him, pulling out the angel blade. He put it down in the center of the table.

              Oliver touched it gently. “Good,” he said, “this should do. All right, you guys ready?”

              Sam nodded his confirmation for the both of them.

“All right, ladies, let’s hold hands.”

Sam took Dean’s hand. It was shaking and sweaty. Sam squeezed it gently, the least he could do to offer comfort. Sam was nervous too; fearful of what Cas might have to say to him. Sam let him die.

But this was important. They needed closure and Dean needed to know that Cas didn’t blame him. Sam knew that much at least. Cas wouldn’t blame Dean.

The radio they used to talk to Bobby still sat untouched in the center of the table. As Olive began the séance it began to whine and pop. Oliver looked at Dean expectantly, offering permission.

“Cas?” Dean said softly. Sam recognized the hitch in his voice when he was trying not to cry. “Can you hear me?”

The radio static began to die out, the popping less sporadic and then…

“Hello Dean.”

Sam bit into his lip to stop himself from crying. Dean seemed to have lost any care about dignity; tears raced freely down his face.

“Hi Cas.”

“Hannah tells me you are free of the Mark. I am glad to hear that.”

“Cas I’m really really really fucking sorry. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean—“

“Dean,” Cas’s voice came over the radio, as deep and stern as always. “It’s okay. I know. I forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“That’s my choice. It wasn’t you Dean.”

“But it _was._ It was me, Cas, you know that. I’m so so so sorry, you have no idea—“

“Believe me, I know exactly how you’ve been Dean. Listen to me. It’s okay and I forgive you. I am glad Sam was able to cure you of the Mark. Knowing you are well, I can find peace.”

“Why didn’t you tell me your wings were hurt?”

“It was not of import.”

And Sam couldn’t stop himself from blowing out his nose. It was such a Cas answer, to ignore his own well being in favor of Dean’s.

“I love you,” Dean said.

“I love you too.”

“I miss you.”

“As do I. But we will not be separated forever. In death, there is reunion. But I do not want to see you before your time. If there is anyone that deserves life, it is you Dean.”

“Naw man,” Dean said and Sam thinks he sees a shadow of a smile in his face. “you deserve it.”

“I’m sorry Dean. I can’t talk much longer; but I can hear you and I will wait.”

The radio was drowned in static was once. Dean’s hand fell limp and he pulled away.

“You better?” Sam asked.

“No,” Dean said. “But I think I can be.”

And Sam sees it. There’s something in Dean’s eyes again; the desire to live, to make Cas happy and await their reunion.

It’ll take time, Sam thought. But it wasn’t impossible.

“Thank you,” Dean said to Oliver.

“Yeah,” Oliver said, looking dumbfounded.

Dean stood. “C’mon Sammy, let’s not waste this guy’s time anymore. Let’s go home.”

The bunker could still be home. Even if Kevin had died there. Even if Cas had died there.

They would just have to nut up and trudge on, like they always did and live for the people who died for them.

Sam owed Cas--and Dean-- all that and more.


End file.
